


the endless road home

by dsunzoid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Hanzo Shimada has Prosthetic Legs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Pining, Noise-induced Hearing Loss, Noodle Dragons, One Night Stands, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Recall, Pre-Recall, Prosthesis, blizzard can fight me, lots of comfort, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26554702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsunzoid/pseuds/dsunzoid
Summary: Hanzo and McCree meet while bounty hunting and end up spending a night together. It’s pretty swell and they don’t really meet again because that’s life and they are not expecting anything beyond a one night stand.Then the Recall happens.Jesse is horrified: he realises the dude he boned was also the idiot that crippled his best friend- it’s terribly awkward at best. Hanzo makes him agree it’s better that they forget about it. It doesn't work out.--Originally written in 2018, revised, reworked and reposted by the same author with a different username.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 4
Kudos: 84





	the endless road home

  
There's an unnatural sharpness to Hanzo, Jesse thinks. It's cold and deep, gnawing at his edges and killing the possibility for anything soft, a façade of stillness like a deceiving river that's sure to drown you the second you step into it.

Some things about him are natural and he's sure to have glimpsed them a couple of times in the months they have spent together at Gibraltar, but not plenty, and he can probably count every single one of those occasions with the fingers of one hand.

There’s the way that he looks at people: a haughty gaze that makes him look like he’s royalty and the rest of the world lucky to be in his sights—a direct consequence of the Shimada-gumi and a childhood that was never quite for children. His indoctrination had been a terrible thing, and it had made him in turn a terrifying man.

It’s natural, as well, the way he stares at Genji when he thinks nobody else is watching. It’s different with him and it shows. There's nostalgia and adoration for the briefest of moments, followed by guilt, hurt, and the shame that his actions bring him.

Anger and incomprehension are far more common, but that’s something that most folks can see any other day.

There’s also the way he moves when in combat, fluid like the fiercest of dancers, trained under the harsh practices that he has kept up all of his life to turn himself into a weapon, with or without a bow to aid him. When they all practice together, he’s all too aware of the eyes captivated by him, and knows himself to be a force to be reckoned with.

But that’s about it.

The rest?

It's perfectly rehearsed in its coldness, every moment and word practiced and rehearsed until it effectively concealed everything about him. No natural reactions, no softness or unawareness as far as his eyes could see. Hanzo had honed himself like a machine, and as such he behaved.

It infuriates Jesse more than he'd like to admit.

They had met before that, both with fake names on their lips and chasing men that reminded them of the men they once were: the men they could’ve been once upon a time. Outlaws, murderers, men without honor, and unlucky enough to be found by each other.

They argued over corpses with sharp words and inappropriate banter.

* * *

Overwatch had gone to shit and everything that Jesse had for himself had gone with it.

Stability, for some, means a house with a white picket fence and a couple of dogs. Or children. Or dogs that you treat like children. Either way, it’s a completely foreign concept for the gunslinger made bounty hunter made outlaw with a bounty.

Stability for Jesse McCree meant going back to the things that he’d always done, way back with Deadlock, now recently with Blackwatch: taking out people. Sure, it wasn't really the same, especially now that he was certainly doing better when it came downs to the morals of it: help the little people first, fuck up the bad guys— if he got the chance. Avoid both if possible, and stay on the move, because staying still for too long means for him worse dangers than exhaustion, like people having more time to see through his aliases, to recognize his face on the wanted holos and posters plastered on the streets.

But still. Dangers or not, old habits are hard to break. Harder if they're fun. So even if Blackwatch is no more, Jesse still dispenses justice where it's needed. He takes his jobs as he pleases, doing his best to seek out the particularly nasty people that need a bullet in their heads.

He had caught word of one such man, one of the worst kind: a debt collector that profited off families that were deep in debt and couldn't fend for themselves when he came knocking on their doors to take what he was owed. Since the families didn’t have any money, he took their children and sold them off to a life of slavery and servitude to pay the interest on their debts.

Jesse hasn’t even seen the man yet—Don T., a 42-year-old from South Carolina, no living relatives—but he _hates_ his guts.

He's been tailing him for a couple of days now, only catching a glimpse of him here and there, which has got him on edge. He vibrates with unspent energy, can't wait to put him down like the dog that he is. He thrums with excitement at the very idea of it, his hand aching for the weight of his revolver.

Jesse quickly learns that there's a bar the man likes to frequent: it’s near the slums of the city that he haunts, near enough to make his collecting easier, but far enough that the smell of them doesn't get in his nose.

It isn’t the most ideal place, but he waits for him there, a glass with a shittier drink than usual in his hand to blend in with the folks, but it doesn’t bother him much: he’s been in far worse places doing far worse things. And, regardless of where he is, it’s the waiting that always gets to him the worst: it fills him with anticipation and unspent energy that’s just looking for the smallest excuse to make him go off.

It had gotten him in trouble more times than he particularly cares to remember, made Gabe scream at him after their missions until one of them caved in and chuckled because they just couldn’t hold it anymore, making them laugh about Jesse’s reckless hotheadedness.

Nobody screams at him anymore. Oh, well.

By the end of the first hour, he’s ready to run a marathon or glass someone in the face, coiled tight with the idea of the hunt, and fired up from the terrible moonshine.

Jesse’s already ordered and drunk five more equally terrible drinks by the time Don T., asshole extraordinaire, walks all by himself through the bar’s doors: the gunslinger’s more than ready to jump him right then and there, but he had been taught a long time ago than there were a time and a place for everything: putting a man down in front of so many witnesses, albeit most of them drunk, was probably not the best idea he could come up with.

Then again, he was never the best at following advice and there must be something ravenous about the look in his eyes because as soon as the man stares at his general direction he’s spotted, judging by the shark’s reaction, who immediately hightails it out of there as if he’s seen the Devil himself waiting for him.

Maybe he’s right. Jesse runs after him so fast he gives himself whiplash, leaving the bar just in time to see him turn left and go through a small alleyway that he already knows the path of: bless his training for getting him used to doing recons.

The man must’ve pushed the empty waste container to the middle of the passageway because _that_ wasn’t there before and Jesse nearly runs face-first into it while turning on the corner of the alley, but his adrenaline’s running too high to allow him something like that— he jumps over it, almost skidding completely off balance— with his prosthetic doing an awful screeching noise against the metal.

He’s riveted, and a laugh escapes his lips unbidden, resonating off the cramped walls.

He hasn’t been this happy to do exercise in a _very_ long time.

He nearly catches up with the man when he sees him trying to jump over a chain-link fence a couple of meters away, but Don must’ve seen something in him, because he chokes out a terrified “Fuck!” and, whatever Jesse’s looking like right now, it gives him enough inspiration to get over his stumble and jump that thing like an Olympian aiming for the gold.

McCree cackles while jumping right after him, turning the last corner before the alley turns into a small side street used solely for parking.

The collector stops in his tracks, sudden, and before he can even begin to start running again Jesse points Peacekeeper at him, one fluid and practiced motion that leaves his head directly in his sights.

The lights are shit but his eyes and aim are never off, and he doesn't hesitate for a second before putting a bullet through his skull.

The man falls—dead and disgusting weight against the muck of the floor, slumped on his knees, folded against himself, and the shadows of the alley cut his figure in half preventing him from taking the picture he needs for his payment.

There’s a ring in his ears. The shots always feel deafening, but now it’s worse with the cramped, small alley that’s done him no favors. McCree briefly wonders about where he placed the first and last pair of protective earbuds he owned, years ago. They're probably lost amongst what's left of Blackwatch’s rubble.

He lets out a low whistle, thanks the man for his shitty luck and terrible choice of bars, and holsters his gun.

The adrenaline rush and the satisfaction of a job well done makes him smile something wicked.

He walks towards the body, careless and confident of himself. It’s a bit of dumb luck, but the man had gotten all on his own to the shittiest part of town and with no one to protect him. He ought to be good, for the moment, since nobody even flinches anymore in that part of town when a gun goes off.

But he only could've been _so_ lucky.

The lights are shit.

He kneels next to his mark, extends a hand toward his jacket to turn him around- and stops dead on his tracks. He only sees it now- There’s an arrow embedded in the man’s skull, right through his forehead and out the back of his head. The metal arrowhead shines slightly, sickly wet with blood and brain.

The shaft of the arrow is not allowing the body to fall completely to the ground, holding his head slightly up and his back curved in an unnatural pose. It’s a one in a thousand chance of perfect balance, the arrow placed with millimetric precision between both his eyes and Jesse McCree thinks that in a completely different circumstance, he’d be impressed.

Now it only means trouble.

His hand moves rapidly to his holster, but a threatening voice accompanied by the clear sound of a bow being drawn beats him to it, tells him it’s quite too late.

A man steps out of the shadows, his stance menacing, a bow in his hands and arrow knocked and already pointing directly at his head, exactly where the previous shot had been.

His face is obscured by a mask that covers everything up to the bridge of his nose. He can’t see but his eyes, cold and harsh in the neon light of the alley; prominent, strong brows and raven hair that's neatly tied back.

"Do not move," he tells Jesse, menacing and sharp just like the arrow that he’s staring down upon. "Unless you want to end up like him as well."

His hand twitches but obeys, heart pounding with enough force that it feels ready to burst out of his chest. If the man had wanted him dead he’d be dead already, he’s sure, but that’s little comfort and does not give him enough confidence to overlook the threat he’s been given.

He resolves to just stare at his feet—a show of submission— for a few moments while he quickly revises his options, but his eyes can’t stop getting distracted by the frankly rather disgusting sight in front of him: he notes there’s only one eye now: where the other should be there's now a hole and a mess of gore, courtesy of himself. At least fucking Don got what was coming to him.

He lifts his hands, as friendly as one can possibly manage to be while in that position, one knee to the ground, a dead man in front of him, and his shit for timing leaving him with another hunter that had aimed for the same prey.

"Howdy," he drawls, and without any other immediate options, dares to look up towards the voice, "didn't see ya there."

His gaze scrutinizes him, and Jesse feels a bit self-conscious about what he has going on right now. His beard is wild and unkempt, the product of staying on the move for too long, riding in the back of trains and hopping on whatever truck would take him, always on the move, always in the approximate direction of the men that he hunts. His hair is just as wild, curved around the shape of his hat, which had been left in his small safe room for the sake of looking the part in this town, middle of shit nowhere, USA. He's also sure he must smell and not necessarily nicer than the alley they are both in right now.

The man scoffs and he's pretty damn sure the man has not found whatever it is that he was looking for in him. Or maybe he did. He's not sure which is best. He feels himself bristle and his fingers twitch, aching for the weight of Peacekeeper.

It's Jesse's turn for his eyes to wander a little. The arrow is still knocked in his direction, and he vaguely wonders about the insane amount of strength needed to keep the string taut and perfectly still for so long.

He stands regal, eyes trained on him, and McCree can't help but notice, with his thoughts wandering after checking him out that he's _small_ compared to him _,_ even with the defined muscles and wide back. Pure, compact strength. He would, honest to God, say something out of wonder and uncomfortable, terrified respect if that didn't mean an arrow to his face.

The man pulls on the string of his bow a bit further and Jesse can hear the tension of it, and _now_ he’s amazed and a little bit turned on because clearly, the man is showing off just because he can at this point.

He looks cybernetically enhanced, with sleek, form-fitting looking armor that covers his chest, arms, and legs—he can't pinpoint if they are prosthetics or just a carapace meant for protection. Figures it doesn't really matter at the moment. The advantage of the situation is not his.

“Well- uh. Pardon my rudeness, but it seems like we are in a bit of trouble, here.” Jesse smiles at him, brazenly looking at his eyes.

“I only see two people having trouble, and I'm not included in that list.”

The assassin’s voice is deep and with an accent, and it shouldn’t make his guts feel on fire, but Jesse has never been a cautious man when it comes down to who he’s attracted to. A little danger has always spiced things up for him.

McCree looks back at the dead man at his feet and snorts. _Can you believe this bullshit situation, Don?_ he wants to ask. He really can't believe his shit for luck.

He looks up at the man, draws a little bit more information out of what he’s seen. Japanese, maybe, by the sound of his accent. Incredibly skilled, and stealthy enough that he missed him entirely until he decided to show himself. Dangerous—not only because of his very obvious strength—but by the looks of him, everything else on top of that. There’s an air about him that screams restrained, carefully honed power. Doesn’t seem like the type of person that usually makes his presence known, and Jesse supposes he should count himself lucky to be alive still.

“Well now. That's just unnecessarily rude.” He doesn't let his hands down.

The man seems to consider him, replying without missing a beat. “Oh?”

“Ain’t polite to steal another man's kill’s all I’m saying.”

The man chuckles, a harsh sound that's somewhat muffled by the mask covering his mouth, making his shoulders shake a bit with it, but the hand holding the bow does not relent. A shiver travels down Jesse’s spine, adds more fuel to the fire in his gut.

“Do tell, was he your property?” His rich voice is tinted with his amusement, and Jesse tries not to feel offended by his lordliness.

“Been tailing him for days is what I'm sayin', followed him all the way out here, so yeah, feels a bit rude to have you stick an arrow to him after I had him dead to rights-”

“Ah.” The man interrupts him.

“Yeah. Ah.”

“I see.”

“So you acknowledge that he's entirely mine to have.”

“I acknowledge that you did a fine job of scaring him towards this alley and into my arms, thank you for _that_.” He moves slightly forward like a snake, poised to attack. “The only reason that he stopped here at _all_ is because I did better than your failure.” His voice drips danger laced with amused condescendence, and Jesse’s going to have to seriously reconsider if he has a thing with humiliation—because the stranger’s voice shouldn’t be wreaking havoc inside of him like it is.

He shivers, blaming the adrenaline.

“Aw. There you go breaking my heart, I thought we had something going on here.” He waves his left hand around a bit, pointing at the two of them in a quick motion. “The prettiest are truly the cruelest, look at you.”

Jesse places his metal hand on his chest, feigns feeling hurt. His heart beats like a drum inside his ribcage, the adrenaline running high. His fingers lay atop a small flashbang device designed for undercover missions, small enough that could be hidden to pass as one of the buttons of his black shirt: a souvenir taken from Blackwatch when the ship had begun to sink and nobody cared to watch anymore.

The assassin tuts. “I wouldn't if I were you.”

Jesse’s heart skips a beat and he stares at him, eyes giving nothing away, unsure if it's a bluff or not. Fell for that particular line a couple of times in training, learned his lesson alright.

He deliberately ignores what the man implies, pouts a bit. “Naw darlin', what? Can't a man flirt with danger a little bit?”

The man backs down a couple of steps, back to the edge of where the harsh neon light meets the dark of the alley and exactly away from the distance Jesse requires to blind him.

“Don’t be foolish.”

His tone seems different. He exhales, retreats one step, and the darkness swallows him whole. His eyes catch the light for a moment, amber-brown like the bourbon that Jesse likes.

“He _only_ stopped because of an arrow to the face. I'd hate to do that to you.” The archer sounds fed up with the situation. “More specifically, I'd hate the nuisance that having to carry two bodies out of here would mean.”

The bow creaks softly and with the dim light McCree can see that the man has lowered it, relaxing the string, his stance still perfectly composed and not even bothering himself with trying to hide the fact that he knows he possesses the advantage of the situation.

Jesse McCree has a certain feeling that tonight is not the night he dies if he plays his cards right. He lowers his hand as well, away from the flashbang device, exhales through his mouth.

“You’re gonna owe me a pretty penny, but...” He's been dog tired, lately, and risking his life over something like this isn't worth it, especially if the assassin is willing to hold enough of a truce to let him leave.

The man snorts and Jesse thinks about pushing his luck just a little bit more.

“For a dangerous beauty like yourself, I think I won’t mind this once. Besides, crooked bastard Don here got what was coming to him.”

He doesn't mind. Well, he doesn’t mind _much_. He stands up with a hand on his knee for support, and he makes a face at the sticky mess he can feel there. He tries to wipe the grime of the floor that got stuck on the fabric of his pants, tries not to think too hard about what it might be, but it’s of no use.

The assassin inspects him with a look and Jesse feels like he’s being judged again. His face feels kinda hot. “What? Don’t look at me like that, you wouldn’t like bits of brain and whatever else on your knees.”

The man’s eyes crinkle slightly, and he might as well be laughing at him. “I wouldn’t know, I don’t make a habit of being on my knees.”

Jesse’s eyes widen and his stomach flips at the suggestion. He’s being fucked with.

Great.

“Just- just let me get outta here with half my dignity intact, alright?”

“Half? That's generous.” The man motions with his head to the same path that Jesse had come through earlier. “Now go, before I change my mind about how much trouble I'm willing to go through.”

The jab hits him something ugly and his stomach twists again because it's the truth, and Jesse resolves to leave before either his pride or his physical integrity get any more compromised.

They both assume that's the end of that.

It's not.

* * *

It’s been five days.

Jesse wakes with a start, a groan, and a curse. It’s been five _fucking_ days already and he can’t get the stupidly disdainful archer of his mind. His thoughts range from _how the fuck did I miss him_ to _Jesus, who gave him the right to be that hot._

He can’t get what happened out of his head or out of his system. He just can’t and he’s well on his way to go insane, considering the unfairly erotic quality of his dreams. He’s not often bested at what he does and it has been years since it had happened in such an undignified, laughable manner.

It’s _shit_ and he’s on top of everything else, a terribly sore loser.

It doesn’t help that the assassin was just his type as if whatever force that manipulated life decided that it wanted a laugh at his expense and decided to fuck with him, presenting him with someone plucked right out of his dreams. He’s already jacked off twice to a stupid fantasy of him involving a filthy fuck against the alley’s floor—and one blowjob for mercy on his knees— and surprisingly enough, it hasn’t solved a single thing. If only, it has made it a thousand times worse.

 _You’ll forget about him in no time_ , he tells himself, followed by _it doesn't matter, you’re never seeing him again._

He has no idea of how wrong he is at that moment.

At least he’s not alone in his suffering.

* * *

Something’s bothering the Japanese man and for once it’s not the relentlessly cold American winter that he’s not used to: He’s already solved that by turning the heating of his hotel suite to an acceptable temperature and curling up with a bunch of blankets on top of the unfairly comfortable sofa the place came with.

Hanzo Shimada can’t get the scowl out of his face and curses each time he catches himself frowning. Screw that foolish man, he’s not getting wrinkles before he’s ought to. He scoffs, browsing inattentively the holopad on his hand, still mulling over the grudge the encounter gave him, one he can’t quite explain. _Who cares_ , he tries to reason with himself. In the end, he didn't even have to explain the bullet hole in the man's head when he got paid for the job. The client certainly hadn't cared, way too ecstatic in their revenge to pay much mind about how the man died.

They were happy, gave good word on him and Hanzo's name got more good rep: another tally for his extensive résumé in his somewhat new _business_ was the only thing that mattered. Right?

Turns out that it's exceedingly hard for him to take a man like that out of his mind.

He groans and sinks a little bit more into the sofa he's curled up on, skimming over a list of available jobs, trying to look for something that could prove a reasonable enough challenge to get his mind off things. It's been almost a week since the last one and being on a standstill is starting to get under his skin.

He's been waiting on a lead with the correct schedule of a Shimada Elder that ran to the States trying to get away from him. He can’t wait to ambush her, because she is the only one standing between him and his goal of finishing every single one of them once and for all.

He’s patient, but not patient enough to stand idly by.

Waiting, as it turns out, drives him insane. It makes him think more than he ought to without a drink in his hand, his maudlin mood now completely unjustified. His treacherous mind takes the time off as permission to make him think back and back again to a grin that’s a flash of white and brazenness that no man should ever have while being threatened. Who in their right state of mind decides to openly flirt with a man that's aiming at his head? _Sure_ , Hanzo reasons, he was trying to get away with the kill and with his life, but flirting? Actual pet names? Calling him pretty?

The man must've been insane.

He sinks further into the sofa, nearly disappears into his nest of blankets.

He hasn't been called any term of endearment, fake or not, in what seems like forever: the men that he occasionally picks up for the night treat him right, writhe in the loveliest ways under him, but never, ever, call him names. It’s part of their deal. Most of the time, they don't even call him _a_ name, with Hanzo not even bothering to give them his fake one.

Hanzo stares at the holopad angrily, as if it had done him a terrible offense. The list of jobs stares back at him.

He should take on another one. Two birds, one stone.

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal thanks to my beta Shurely, without whom I couldn't have possibly posted this! ♥ I love you tons.
> 
> This is (was) my first story ever, I hope you guys like it. Kudos and comments are infinitely appreciated! See you in a week or so!
> 
> find me on  
> [my twitter, deimosadora!](https://twitter.com/deimosadora)  
> Yay!
> 
> \--
> 
> This turned out to be OVER A TWO YEAR LONG HIATUS. I am SO sorry. Life got in the way but I am determined to not leave this alone. I am posting in a new account, so don't freak out- I also left a message on the previous one, so people know.
> 
> I love you all, and thank you for the patience.


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